


Demon

by brightsiren (jetonator)



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-19
Updated: 2013-01-19
Packaged: 2017-11-26 02:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/645496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetonator/pseuds/brightsiren
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Circle mage turned Grey Warden meets an Antivan Crow turned partner. But while demons lurk in the Fade, so do they in dark pasts and stormy betrayals, and our two friends find that they are not that different at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was originally posted on fanfiction.net under the penname brightsiren.

From the campsite, Daylen Amell watched the surface of Lake Calenhad ripple and waver, disrupting the still reflection of the Circle Tower. Even in destruction the building was a sight to behold – the arches chiseled from white stone framed the night sky in their black silhouettes, while the pointed turrets still glowed weakly in the darkness. He imagined First Enchanter Irving must be having a hard time cleaning up, even with most of the Fade demons back where they should be, for there were bound to be a few still roaming the corridors that they had missed in their haste.

"I'm guessing you wanted to stay and help."

The Grey Warden looked up at Alistair, and accepted the roughly-cast metal mug he was holding out to him. The contents of the mug were piss-yellow and smelled vile.

"It's ale. From the Spoiled Princess," added Alistair. "Tastes awful, but it's better than nothing."

"Thanks."

"About the tower. Don't worry. I'm sure it's nothing the senior mages can't handle." Alistair dropped down on the log beside his partner and took a swig from his own mug, then wrinkled his nose comically. "But I just don't understand. If the Chantry had been overrun by – say, fire-breathing nugs, I don't think I would have joined the fray like you did."

"The Circle was my home. It's all I ever knew, before I met Duncan. It just felt… right."

"Well, you just killed two birds with one stone, then. You saved your home, and that's one Treaty down."

"I guess."

Alistair yawned. "Well, we're heading for Redcliffe next, so turn in before Sten wakes up for his morning training, or whatever he calls it. The innkeeper said to leave the mugs on the front step. Good night.”

"Good night."

Amell resumed gazing at the Tower. That had been one of the reasons he decided the party should camp by the lake rather than rent rooms at the Spoiled Princess, despite having more than enough coin. None of the inn's windows overlooked Lake Calenhad at the right angle, or offered a view of the Tower quite like the one he had now, sitting on a log in a clearing next to the inn, with nothing obscuring the view other than the occasional night-bird flitting across the lake. And though he had told Wynne that he didn't mind paying for her room so she didn't have to rough it out, she seemed to share his unsaid sentiments and had politely declined. He had caught her staring at the Tower like this too, before she retired to her tent. That had been two hours ago.

The ale in his cup diminished as minutes turned into hours, but if he tasted anything unsavory his senses did not care. As hard as he tried he could not pull away, and when morning came Amell lead his party towards Redcliffe with heavy eyelids and an even heavier heart.

 

 


	2. The Meeting

When the young traveler woman approached him with fearful eyes, Amell saw no reason to doubt her. She gestured in the direction of her caravan, which, he thought, probably had been overturned or maybe even set on fire by a band of darkspawn stragglers. For there was no way the main band could have approached Redcliffe so soon after devastating Lothering. He gripped his staff tighter and briskly followed the distraught woman, who led them around the bend to a clearing.

"The Grey Warden dies here!"

An arrow sang past his face before he had time to blink.

"Andraste's arse, we're being ambushed!" Alistair cried, unsheathing his sword. Leliana readied her longbow and pinned down a helmeted attacker rushing towards her, dagger in each hand. Amell tossed fireballs at a row of archers, who had planted themselves strategically on a hill. They fell apart, armor glowing red-hot as they burned.

It was then that Amell noticed the elf. And a second too late, at that. The elf had slashed him in the back with a dagger, tearing the fabric of his mage's robes and leaving a cut that burned and writhed like no flesh wound he had felt before. Gritting his teeth, he raised his staff and let loose a wave of magic that stopped the elf in his tracks, eyes rolling up to their whites. Amell swiveled quickly around and froze the attacker in place. The daggers the elf wielded hissed unpleasantly at their change of state, and in ice the green-tinged blades were all the more noticeable. A potent poison coating sheathed them like a scabbard, much like the one Leliana was fond of using when attackers were too near to assault with a bow and arrow.

Panting, he put space between him and the attacker, and – making sure Alistair and the others were safely out of the way – brought forth a stream of fire from his palms, melting the ice and hopefully giving the enemy within a nice roasting. The trick worked, and the elf dropped to the floor, weapons sliding out of his limp hands with no resistance.

Amell tended to himself with a health poultice from the pack, too tired to cast anything further. The pain from the poisoned cut in his back started to dampen. He would ask Wynne to join the skin back later, for she was more adept at this sort of magic. Then, he warily approached the elf’s body and gave it a quick once-over.

The elf’s skin was of a darker tint than a Fereldan's, but still failed to hide the fresh burns on his face, which would undoubtedly scar and ooze without proper healing. Then there were the pointed ears, and the distinctively elfish features in the nose bridge and eyes. He scanned the other bodies lying in the field, but they were all human. The rest all wore matching armor with a crude emblem, but the leather this elf wore was of a higher grade. Hired mercenaries, and their client. Odd, though, weren’t mercenaries normally hired to protect one weaker than them? This elf had put up a better fight than half of them combined.

"He's their leader. I checked," said Leliana. She pulled an arrow from a nearby corpse, wiped it on the body and slid it into her quiver.

"How?" asked Alistair disbelievingly.

"I asked this one." She nudged the dead man at her feet lightly with her boot. The corpse's right arm pointed towards the collapsed elf, a last action composed with his dying breath. "I was going to let him live a while longer, but he just… left."

"He knows we're Grey Wardens. I think it's best we ask him some questions," said Amell.

Alistair shrugged, but Wynne nodded in agreement and channeled a weak healing spell into the elf's ragged body. Leliana found a length of rope on one of the bodies and set to tying their victim's wrists together, while Amell took care of the ankles.

As the burns on the elf's face shrank and shallowed with Wynne's technique, Amell caught himself staring. On the elf's left cheek were two short lines, like curved blades, much darker in color than the coppery skin beneath. They traced the angle of his prominent cheekbones, which gave him a handsome, chiseled look that did not exactly fit his stature. Longish blonde hair, much lighter than Alistair's corn-colored shade, fell around the elf's shoulders. A thin lock on either side of his head above the ears had been braided and fastened at the back of the head like a crown made of rope.

"He's beautiful," Leliana murmured.

"Don't get too attached. We are killing him, aren't we?" Alistair sighed.

"We don't know for sure…"

"Yeah, and what does our leader say to that?”

"I'm… not sure," said Amell, after some consideration.

"Maker! Not you too!" Alistair slapped a gauntleted hand to his forehead. "This elf tried to kill you, you know."

"For once, I have to agree with Alistair," said Wynne. "With Loghain still calling for your heads, I think letting this elf go symbolizes a huge risk."

"Thank you! We’ve slaughtered the rest already. One more won’t make a difference."

"I'll decide when I hear what he has to say."

As if on cue, the elf began to stir. Alistair readied his sword, despite the elf's incapacitation and a glare from Leliana.

A groan escaped their victim's mouth. "Where am I?" He blinked in the sunlight, and attempted to raise a hand to shield his eyes, but realized that his hands were bound tight behind his back.

"You're captured. We need to ask you a few questions," Amell began, looking down at their culprit.

"Don't try anything," muttered Alistair.

"I see… I should have expected this," the elf chuckled, his weak voice gaining traction. The laugh was melodious, and coupled with the exotic accent with which he spoke, made him seem all the more mysterious and enchanting. "My name is Zevran. Zev, to my friends. I'm part of the Antivan Crows, and someone told me to assassinate two Grey Wardens. The two of you, I take it," his eyes traveled from Amell, and then to Alistair. "Exactly as the client described – a handsome mage and an, ah, angry warrior."

Amell looked taken aback; Alistair's eyes narrowed. Evidently he enjoyed making jokes more than being the butt of them. Leliana giggled.

Ignoring the elf's earlier comment, Amell continued. "What are the Antivan Crows?"

"You don't know? Well who would have thought –" Zevran seemed surprised, but Leliana interrupted him mid-sentence, the corners of her lips curling.

"Save your breath, Zevran. I'll tell him what he needs to know."

"You're calling him by name now?"

"Oh, shush, Alistair."

The redhead launched into a vivid description of what she knew, the elf nodding in agreement periodically, unabashed by his vulnerable position. A vague impression of such information surfaced in Amell; he decided he had probably heard of the Crows during one of his Circle lessons. Whatever else he had learned now seemed distant and unhelpful. A small part of him remembered enjoying and anticipating the classes he shared with Jowan.

Jowan. He felt his cheeks prickle, before brushing the thought from his mind.

"So the Antivan Crows are a group of elite assassins?" Amell went over Leliana's explanation again in his head, still unsure of what to make of it.

"That is correct, though evidently I am not elite enough," mused the elf. "The Wardens are not dead, and I have failed my mission… But perhaps that should be the least of my worries." Contrary to his words Zevran did not look the least bit worried; he carried himself with a demeanor that was almost smug, entirely unfitting for a prisoner backed into a corner.

"Who sent you?" Amell pressed on.

"A man named Loghain. He seemed to be of a high position. But I do not care much for the politics of this country."

"Loghain! I should have known!" Alistair flung his hands up in the air.

"Careful, Warden. I've never heard of assassins giving away the identity of their employer so… willingly," said Wynne, folding her arms.

"Now now, torture is messy business. All I've done is saved you the hassle – how do you say it here – 'the end justifies the means'?"

The older mage stiffened. "That's not quite right, and I'm still not inclined to believe you."

"Whatever you say, ser mage," Zevran shrugged as best as he could in his position. "I entered a contract saying I would… dispatch these two Wardens, nothing else. I could go screaming the names of my clients from the peaks of the Frostback Mountains, if I desired such."

"Oh, he's funny!" Leliana gushed, and the elf did a little bow using his head in a dapper fashion one would normally associate with tipping a hat.

"Don't encourage him!" said the other Grey Warden exasperatedly.

"Well now, since you've already kept me alive for this long, I have a proposal to make," purred the assassin, now making eye contact with Amell alone.

A proposal? Fragments of Circle training flowed back into his mind. Dreams he had when he was a boy. Demons of Hunger, Rage, Desire… They pulled you in with flowery, convincing words, enchanting appearances, the swirling background of the Fade changing color and searing into his eyes as they whispered into his ear. Whispers of pacts, promises, and proposals…

He forced himself to meet the elf's intense gaze and spoke.

"Why should I listen to you? You tried to kill me!"

"Don't take things personally, Warden. This whole killing business is merely a business venture, which has been abandoned by my failure to kill you," the elf explained. "Even if you let me go free, I hardly dare show up on my client's doorstep without your head in a nice box. And your Grey Warden friend's too." Alistair flinched.

Amell ignored him. "So you're saying I should kill you?"

"No, no, not that. You would gain nothing from doing so –"

"I'd rather gain nothing and lose a threat," muttered Alistair.

"—My good man, I would appreciate it if you stopped interrupting me. I, too, like the sound of my own voice very much, yet unlike you I refrain from displaying masturbatory tendencies–" If anything, the elf looked more amused than irritated.

The blonde Grey Warden made to retaliate, but Wynne knocked him lightly on the head with her staff, eliciting a howl of pain.

"Stop bickering!" she sighed. "As much as I am apprehensive to this idea, I think we should see what this… Zevran has to say for himself." Alistair shot her a look as if to say, "Not you too!" and slunk behind Amell, now pointedly ignoring anything to do with the elf on the floor.

"Thank you, kind lady," Zevran purred. "May I proceed?" he turned to Amell.

"Go ahead."

"Allow me to travel with you, as a member of your party," he grinned, and Amell noticed that his eyes were shining. The overall effect was dashing.

"What? Why would I do that?" he tried his best to remain unfazed and folded his arms across his chest. Alistair looked on the brink of chipping in, but Wynne shot him a black glance. Even Leliana appeared surprised, to some degree, though the faint blush on her cheeks suggested that she had also fallen victim to the elf's charm.

"I am an Antivan Crow, trained in combat, stealth and deceit. Surely you could find use for me? As far as I can tell, you have but one melee fighter," his eyes rested on Alistair, who looked resentful. "and an incompetent one, at that. Adding me to the ranks would make you significantly more formidable."

"We have Sten back at the camp!" hissed Alistair, not enjoying the exploitation. "And in case you've forgotten, Leliana's a pretty decent blade!"

"Thank you!" said the archer cheerily.

"Not denying your incompetence, then?" Zevran smirked, and Alistair looked fit to explode. "Well, Warden? It's your call."

Amell tried to weigh the pros and cons of the arrangement in his head, but something about the elf's smoky voice and confident demeanor made any attempts at a fair comparison trying. What if he was assassinated in the night? But would seeing this elf's face twisted into a cruel smile as he drew his last breath really be such a bad thing?

 _Don’t be too trusting, Daylen. Remember Jowan_. He gripped his staff tighter, but his stomach lurched regardless.

_But it’ll be different, this time round. It’ll be different._

"Fine. We could use you."

As Leliana cut Zevran free from his bindings Amell could not shake the feeling that things were about to take a turn — for better or for worse he could not say, but all he felt was empty.

Different. I hope.


End file.
